The Seedbearing Prince: Part I Read online

  Laman’s reasonable, and fair with a staff besides, when he's not playing at Elder, he thought. I could speak to him. One season as an Applicant would have Dayn begging for anything that spared him from the fields. What would Laman do then? Laman had heavy ties with the Village Council, after all. Joam recalled the man's face when Elder Buril named Dayn an Attendant. An odd blend of pride, envy, and regret. That last puzzled him, regret―but maybe that meant a chance for Montollos with Joam.

  “I shouldn't even bother,” Joam muttered, although he knew the words to be false the moment he uttered them. He would do anything for Dayn. Well, anything within reason. He shivered again, and pushed the Dreadfall firmly from his mind.

  Finally he turned off the road to his home, and crept soundlessly through his bedroom window, a skill honed through many nights of pulling pranks. Joam listened for creaking floorboards, but his parents and visiting brothers did not stir.

  He placed his staff in the corner beside his door, and peeled his boots from miserably sore feet, giddy at the prospect of slumber. Joam groggily wondered how long it would take Dayn to give up. That surely wasn’t sunlight. Why don’t the Elders teach us about the Dreadfall? Is it because they don’t know what made cliffs so deep? Joam gave one last shudder before exhaustion forced his eyelids shut. He would find some excuse for being home in the morning.

  Panicked shouts jolted him awake just before he began to snore. He leaped from bed, but the ground lurched under his feet and tossed him back into his blankets.

  “Boys, outside!” He heard Milchamah shouting. “Get out of the house!”

  Joam looked around in shock. His room looked windswept. Dresser drawers hung crookedly, wooden shelves slipped from their hangings, their contents scattered. His bed now slanted askew, inexplicably shifted away from the wall. Shouting continued throughout the house, and Joam opened his mouth to join in.

  The cry died in his throat, cut short by an impossible sight. His darkwood staff no longer leaned in the corner. It floated slowly toward the ceiling as he watched, held in the thrall of some unnatural freedom. More objects began to rise. The broken shelves. His boots and whittling knives. The sight made Joam's hair stand straight up. He clung to his bed, fearful it would stir next. Surprise mingled into his family's screams.

  “Peace protect us, the ground has died!” His mother’s voice rang with terror, but Joam refused to believe her cries.

  The ground trembled again, forcefully enough to rattle his teeth. For some reason, the memory of the Dreadfall brushed his mind, and somehow Joam knew.

  “Dayn, whatever mess you’ve gotten into, peace send you’re safe!”

  ***

  Dayn glimpsed only a fleeting impression of rock hurtling toward him, wreathed in fire and dark smoke. Searing wind slammed into his body. The force flung him end over end, pelting him with shattered pieces of the cliff. The fragments glanced harmlessly from his seal-protected limbs in blinding flashes of light. He curled behind his forearms and shins as best he could while gouts of rock from the cliff wall mushroomed in every direction. The explosion propelled him away from the heartrock in a wave of boulders and choking dust.

  Something cracked Dayn’s head and silver discs speckled his vision. Pain lanced his upper arms and chest, tearing sleeves and skin alike. Another blow glanced off his collarbone just shy of a snapped bone. The tiny fragments needling his body made him painfully aware of every inch of skin not covered in sealer. After whatever the men did to Shard’s heart, the explosions pushed him away from the heartrock with dizzying speed.

  A firm mass thudded into Dayn’s back, stunning him. He twisted around to discover a slab of smoking rock wider around than he could reach. Instinctively, Dayn kicked against it. His momentum shifted immediately, and he angled on a new path through the rock. For the first time since losing his rope, Dayn could control where he moved.

  Up, he thought. I need to go up!

  Dayn began to hurdle clumsily, twisting and pushing to direct himself. He leaped and pushed through the debris, like a frog crossing a flooded river. The air cooled. Stars―blessed stars―were visible above! He was closer to the surface than he could hope for, but feared the rock would carry him past it, maybe even off his world completely and into the void.

  He focused on the stars, and finding the cliffside. He kicked off a nearby boulder as big as a house as it sailed past him. The angle put him crossways to the main flow of rock. Fresh explosions thundered out of the Dreadfall’s maw below him.

  Dayn slammed into a mass that did not budge. He clung to it with all of his strength, feeling the cold rock of a cliff wall scrape his face.

  “I did it,” he breathed. “I did it.” Shadow raced toward him, retaking the cliff walls as the sun below passed away from the Dreadfall. Cold swept in as the light vanished. The world reeled, and a terrible thundering made him lift his head in time to see broken stone and debris crashing its way back down the Dreadfall. Shard no longer let it float free, he could feel the difference in her ground. Blood and sweat covered his body, and pain gouged him from every direction.

  Dayn knew he should begin climbing, but exhaustion kept his legs from moving. He heard water flowing swiftly from somewhere behind the cliff wall. He knew that meant something urgent, but the ringing in his ears refused to let him ferret out why. Another thought soon replaced it.

  “So that’s what coursing feels like.” His voice sounded mangled to his own ears. A sickly pungent odor was the last thing Dayn remembered before darkness took him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Strangers

  No one believes it, but the Preceptors are prouder than Defenders and shrewder than Consorts. Of all the Ringmen, they are convinced that they alone keep the Belt from flying apart. They may be right.

  -journal entry from the Highest Jusee of Ara

  Pain burned through Dayn's shoulder and back, and a horrible throbbing threatened to cleave his head apart. He opened his eyes with a groan and squinted at the sunlight blistering through his bedroom window.

  “I'm home,” he rasped aloud. He could not remember how he came to be there. His mouth tasted of old blood and his throat felt caked with dust. Bandages engulfed his shoulder and chest where the wreathweaver's teeth had left their mark. More scrapes and cuts made him groan when he shifted slightly under his covers. His skull pounded so fiercely he did not realize he was not alone until Laman cleared his throat.

  He struggled to sit up, heart thudding against his chest as he searched his father's face. Milchamah stood there too, leaning just inside the door frame. He halted Dayn with a gesture before he could rise from the bed. Dayn immediately saw why. Laman's face masked a tightly restrained fury.

  “Joam may have very well saved your life. When the shaking started, your mother and I were mad with fear over you two until Milchamah and Joam told us about...” Something hard crossed his face. His voice remained calm, but a vein stood out against the muscles of his neck. “Your plans for the Dreadfall.”

  “We caught Grahm on the road, asked him for help. Turned out he had a cinch and pulley to fish you out,” Milchamah said, picking idly at a scabbed over cut on his forearm. His tone grew thoughtful. “Funny thing for an offworlder to keep, but fortunate for you. Still took us all of yesterday to find you and drag you out.” Dayn closed his eyes, feebly grasping for memories. Of course the rupture he witnessed would be felt in Wia Wells. “What happened?”

  “The whole of Shard shook like a dog ridding herself of fleas.”

  “This happens to other worlds, but never Shard. I fear it was no ordinary...earthquake.” Laman grimaced over the unfamiliar word. “She did not just shudder. Somehow the ground...weakened. The slightest bound would take you sailing for spans. The village has been accounting for damage, but that's not the worst of it. There are children missing.”

  “Peace,” Dayn said numbly. After his own experience, he could easily imagine toddlers floating helplessly through the air. His sister's absence suddenly made Dayn's hear
t skip. “Tela! Is she alright?”

  “Your sister is safe, and a budding hero at that.” Laman allowed himself the briefest of smiles before the solemn mask returned. “One of Kajalynn's triplets was nearly lost to the sky. Tela bounded off Grahm’s roof to bring him back down.”

  “Ten spans high, and he never woke for a second.” Milchamah shook his head in amazement. A baby that high, in the dark, would be near impossible to see. Tela really was a hero.

  And what were you doing? Dayn thought to himself. Off in the Dreadfall when your neighbors needed you. Your family. He slumped back into the bed. The two men allowed the silence to linger, punctuating his shame.

  Finally, Laman spoke. “She and your mother will return soon. You need to rest now, and heal.”

  “Father, we need to tell people about the Dreadfall! I saw―”

  “Tell them what? That Misthaven has been right all along about Wia Wells stock? Or that you were off to protect us from a deadwisp you saw in the well?” Laman shook the family staff as though calling on the disappointment of his entire bloodline. “An Applicant―no! A Ro'Halan isn’t capable of such actions.”

  “Father, I didn’t―” Dayn began to protest, but Laman cut him off with a disgusted gesture.

  “We’ll speak of this later. There’s still need for us in the village. No,” Laman said sharply when Dayn started to leave his bed. “You stay here. Four able-bodied men were absent Wia Wells to save you from your foolishness. You’ve cost everyone enough already.”

  He nodded at Milchamah, who straightened with a grunt. The two men left him without another word.

  “Please tell Joam I said thank you,” Dayn called out. If Joam had stayed, they never would have known where to find me.

  A terse exchange flared briefly in the hallway. Milchamah reappeared with a staff in his hand, carved from silverpine, and completely unused.

  “Don't lose this one.” He flung the staff hard and Dayn caught it reflexively. Brand new and superbly balanced, he could not recall holding a finer grain of wood. The farmer likely acquired it at Evensong. “You’re the only real competition for my boy. At least, when you choose to think. Peace only knows you won't be headed anywhere else this season.”

  Dayn winced as the truth of Milchamah's words settled into him. Rumors spread like tripweed through Wia Wells, same as any Mistland village. Dayn in the Dreadfall, a day after being named Attendant? Grahm would tell his wife Kajalynn, who would spread it to one of her gossiping sisters. Or some Elder would corner Joam and browbeat the story from him. The how of it did not matter, only that the secret Dayn had kept hidden for months would be known through the village by sundown.

  Only that would not be the worst of it. When the visiting Misthaveners learned of Dayn's blunder, his time as an Attendant would be the shortest in all the history of Shard. Elder Buril and every hard working Mistland farmer would be hard pressed to forgive him after that. Dayn let out a crestfallen sigh as the old weaponmaster departed.

  “Hope it was worth it, boy.”

  Dayn's head throbbed with newfound intensity. Miserable thoughts of his future as an embarrassment tumbled through his mind. He let the silverpine clatter to the floor, and stuffed his head beneath a pillow, squeezing his eyes shut. Suddenly tired and weak, he sought sleep. His door stood open, and his parents' heated voices trickled through his fading consciousness.

  “Joam said all he talks about is coursing of all things! And the Dreadfall...”

  Dayn groaned as he slept, too low to be heard in the kitchen. He tossed aside the pillow and sheets in a fitful bid for coolness. Sweat droplets beaded over his skin like a rash.

  “...when I return from Wia Wells.” Laman’s calm baritone. “Imagine how the Belt will suffer if these...quakes...continue? We'll spend more time as masons than farmers.”

  New spots of crimson bloomed on Dayn's shoulder. He clawed savagely at the bandages covering the wound. The brown skin nearest the dressing took on a sickly, purplish hue.

  “...peace send the monster wasn’t venomous. Did you ask if he saw the hood, or its coloring? A snake that large...”

  Dayn twisted and turned as fever wracked his body. On the shelf Laman built for Dayn's collecting, a new curiosity rested, nestled between his basket of gems and a piece of driftwood that looked like a ridgecat. Ignored since dropping from Dayn's pocket and still caked in grime, the orb from the wreathweaver's perch came to life.

  “...Grahm is close by, I'll have him come check on you. Don't let Tela stray far, you can imagine how that shaking stirred up the wilds. I’ll be back well before sundown, hopefully with good news.”

  “Be careful, husband.”

  The orb pulsed, mirroring Dayn's headache perfectly. Crimson light bathed his room. Hanalene might have noticed if she were not watching Laman bound away toward Wia Wells, lost in her own worried thoughts.

  The red glow faded. Dayn's moans stopped and his breathing deepened.

  When Hanalene came to look in on him, Dayn did not feel her gentle touch upon his forehead. She hissed over his soaked bandages, but clucked in surprise upon removing them. After pulling Dayn's covers up again, she spared the strange object on her son's shelf a mistrustful glance before closing the door quietly behind her.

  Fever dreams soon burned through Dayn's consciousness.

  He twisted through the torrent, with mist and darkness for his only companions. Swirling rock formed an inescapable gauntlet as Dayn’s wingline pulled him through the void. He risked a look behind him.

  Grotesque man-shapes of oily smoke coalesced on his trail, men made of ash and fire. The very torrent bent around their path. Dayn fluttered just beyond their clutches in the fragile dance of prey. Their touch would change him forever, somehow, a truth Dayn understood without knowing how or why. His pursuers edged closer, drinking in his fear.

  A sickening snap vibrated through Dayn's being, and the wingline secured to his harness went slack. He drifted in the torrent, the severed wingline floating uselessly before him. Hands closed on his neck from behind, and Dayn could not escape. He turned to face the same stare he knew from his father's well. The gray skin split in the semblance of a smile. Maggots poured from the mouth.

  “Ro'Halan,” the gray man hissed. “I will tear your heart from the Belt, brother.” Pale fingers squeezed around his throat. Dayn's world splintered in pain.

  “Brother?”

  “No, no!” Dayn thrashed himself awake. His blankets peeled away to reveal Tela, peering down at him with an odd expression in her golden eyes. She yanked away his blanket with a flourish and held it triumphantly, like some captured banner. Dayn glowered as she beamed down at him.

  “Sleep all day, time to play!”

  “Get off!” Dayn flung a pillow at his sister's head, maybe harder than she deserved. It sailed harmlessly over her sprawling feet as she tumbled backwards off the bed, only to alight nimbly in a back bridge. She scuttled around like a lost-shell river crab, giggling the entire time. A cat might envy her reflexes.

  “You’d better get up, brother. You better get up right now!”

  “Can't you see I'm supposed to be still?” Dayn growled. In truth, his shoulder felt better than before.

  “You don't look hurt to me,” Tela observed. “Did you trip while you were bounding again? Your head is much too big to bound properly, brother!”

  Dayn knew to respond would only invite more teasing, so he pointedly ignored her goads while he inspected his injuries. No trace of his headache remained, and the carnival of bruises covering his ribs had faded considerably. His mother's herbs made quick work of most cuts or scrapes, but Sister Cari the healer must have been fetched to care for his arm, which he flexed in amazement. Moving it barely hurt.

  “Get up! Father’s gone to the village,” Tela tugged on his good arm insistently, but Dayn slunk back beneath his sheets. She kissed her teeth irritably and gave up, only to begin pulling valiantly on his ankle. Her next words froze Dayn's blood. “The strangers will be here s
oon!”

  “Strangers? What strangers?” he demanded. Tela jumped back, startled by his intensity. “You better not be telling any stories!”

  “I'm not! I heard Grahm whispering to father this morning while you were asleep. He looked pale as a deadwisp, too!”

  “What did he say?”

  “The part I heard? ‘It can’t be helped, Laman. Tell Buril to let them do whatever they want. Trust me, I know.’ Then father saw me, and told me to go outside.”

  Dayn rose, his head spinning with unanswered questions. Grahm had seen a gray man, nothing could convince Dayn otherwise. He would never forget his ordeal in the Dreadfall, and one memory above all. I am not here to frighten them with trembling ground, the one called Raaluwos had said. I want this world torn from their accursed Belt. Dayn did not know how their neighbor was tied to the man, but it could not be good.

  “You know who they are, don't you?” Tela asked as Dayn strode by her. “Hey! Where are you going, bighead?”

  Dayn called himself nine kinds of idiot for not telling his father about the gray men sooner, for not forcing them to listen about the Dreadfall―

  He turned the corner so quickly he nearly sprawled his mother back into the kitchen, a roll of fresh bandages in her hand. Startled, Hanalene quickly regained her composure and fixed him with expectant eyes.

  “Mother. I'm sorry, I―” Dayn began, but just then a loud knock sounded at their front door.

  “Finally, Grahm comes.” Hanalene smoothed her skirts and glided into the front room. “Maybe now we’ll have some answers.”

  Dayn sidestepped her to bar the way before she reached the door. Hanalene's eyes widened in a blend of indignation and surprise.

  “We don't know if that’s him at all,” Dayn said urgently. “Let me check first, to be sure.”